Hollywood Husbands [antikvár]

Jack Python walked through the lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel with every eye upon him. He had money, charisma, a certain kind of power, razor-sharp wit, and fame. It all showed. He was six feet tall with virile good looks. Thick black hair worn just a tad too long, penetrating green eyes, a two-day stubble on a deep suntan, and a hard body. He was thirty-nine years old and he had the world by the balls. Jack Python was one of the most famous talk show hosts in America. "Hello, Jack," cooed a voluptuous woman sprayed into a tennis minidress. He smiled his killer smile—he had great teeth. Looked her over appreciatively, knowing eyes sweeping every curve. Standard greeting, "How's it going?" She would have been happy to teil him, but he didn't break stride, just kept walking towaid the Polo Lounge. Several more people greeted him along the way. Two tourists paused to stare, and a very thin girl in a red tank top waved. Jack did not stop until he reached his destination. Table number one, a cozy leather booth directly facing the entrance of the Polo Lounge. A man was already seated there—a man with a slightly manie look, clad in white sweats, black Porsche shades, and a Dodgers baseball cap. Jack slid in beside him. "Hiya, Howard," he said. "Hiya, Jack," Howard Soloman replied with a wink. There was something about the perpetual motion of his features that gave him a crazed look. He was always mugging, crossing his eyes, sucking in his cheeks. In repose he was quite nice-looking—the face of a Jewish